


Falling Home

by sunshinewinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Caretaker Dean, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Hypothermic Castiel, Illustrated, Love Confessions, M/M, Possessive Castiel, Possessive Dean, Post-Season/Series 08, Protective Dean Winchester, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels have fallen and all Dean knows is that he needs to find Castiel, blizzard and feelings be damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Astrophilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrophilla/gifts).



> This is a canonverse AU that takes place after the season eight finale. The angels fall, Sam doesn't complete the final trial and falls ill. Dean takes him to the hospital where an angel named Ezekiel heals him and he and Dean head back to the bunker, and then the story begins with the search for Castiel.
> 
> Written for and beta'd by Astrophilla <3

“Doin’ okay?” Dean asks, eyeing Sam as he reclines on the couch, a blanket thrown over his legs and his laptop perched precariously on his knees. Sam glances up from whatever he’s researching and frowns at his brother, eyebrows pulling together in a look that makes _Dean_ feel like the one who just went through a very near-death experience, when Sam’s the one who almost got himself killed trying to cure Crowley and shut the gates of Hell.  
  
“I’m perfectly fine Dean, like I said the last twenty times. Feeling better than I have in weeks,” Sam answers, voice patient, but Dean can sense the underlying frustration. “I’m starting to worry about _you_ , though.” Dean raises his brows in question, defensively folding his arms across his chest.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. Sam sighs wearily, closing his laptop, and turns to fix Dean with those puppy eyes of his, which have finally lost their gaunt, hollowed-out look. 

“You’re worried about Cas and you’re using me to deflect since he isn’t here to fuss over. I know you’re concerned, trust me, I am too, but asking me if I’m okay every five minutes isn’t the answer here.” Dean sputters indignantly at his brother’s painfully close-to-the-mark observation, turning his head to avoid his brother catching the heat flooding to his face at being called out on it. Damn his overly perceptive brother. “You know you want to, so go find him! I’m sure he needs you, wherever he’s at. The angels all fell, which means he must’ve too — who knows what could be happening with him? I say we go out now and find him, ASAP.” Dean catches the ‘we’ and frowns.  
  
“You’re in no condition to search with me, Sammy. It would be a lot more helpful if you stayed here and just focused on getting better,” Dean suggests, and Sam opens his mouth to protest but stops when he sees whatever look is in Dean’s eyes. Sam nods reluctantly.  
  
“Fine. But keep me updated.” Dean nods, grateful Sam didn’t put up much of a fight this time.  
  
“You know I will.”

Dean thinks of what Sam said before and his heart plummets. It’d been not even two days since Ezekiel had healed Sam of the damage the Trials had done to him and they’d retreated to the bunker. Three days since the angels fell, three days since Dean has seen Castiel. If he’s honest with himself, then yeah, he’s spent more than a little time anxiously obsessing over where Cas is, what kind of condition he’s in and what could be happening to him. He’d tried calling him so many times that the angel’s awkward answering machine message is ingrained into his skull, and tried praying even though he suspected it a lost cause, but both attempts at contact had been fruitless. So he’d done what he _could_ do, had taken care of Sammy, who really is better now, and hoped that somehow Cas would find a way to call him. The angel knows their numbers, knows where they live, so Dean had to have faith he would find his way to them as soon as he could. 

But that does nothing to quell Dean’s mounting fear that something bad— _seriously_ bad, considering Cas should’ve been able to contact them by now— has happened. Dean is hit by a sudden onslaught of exhaustion, like acknowledging how his concern over the angel has been plaguing him is adding a few tons to the weight on his shoulders. He drops heavily into the armchair next to Sam’s couch, bending at the waist so he can rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. “I don’t know how to find him,” Dean confesses, flinching at how defeated he sounds. “I’ve tried everything. What if—” Before he can launch into all of his misgivings, Sam interrupts him, voice considerably softer.  
  
“We’ll find him, Dean, we always do. Have you tried tracking his phone? Might not be on him, but it’s a start, right?” Dean snaps his head up at the suggestion, eyes widening.  
  
“Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?” he growls at himself as Sam hands him his laptop, opened to the GPS site they use to locate each other.  
  
“You’ve had a lot on your plate,” Sam consoles, but Dean angrily shakes his head, berating himself to no end as his fingers fly over the keys, feeding it the necessary information before hitting enter. 

The screen’s loading image only serves to make the blood in Dean’s veins pump faster, his knee bouncing up and down furiously as he waits for the site to work its magic. He’s holding his breath as the search completes, releasing a gusty exhale when a map shows the exact location and address of Cas’ phone. “He’s at a _Mckay’s Taphouse_ in Kansas City.” Dean declares, his immediate relief closely followed by a wave of confusion. “It won’t take long to drive there, I’ll be back in a few hours,” Dean says, turning to Sam with an unsettling mix of adrenaline and impatience coursing viciously through him. He’s nearly jittery with the need to get down there now that he has a location, a plan, something to actually grasp at. Sam nods, writing the location and basic directions on a notepad for Dean and handing it over.  
  
“You’re sure you’re good to go on your own?” Sam yells as Dean hurries to grab his jacket and keys.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure, I’ll call if I need any help. I’ll be back soon, Sammy. Let me know if you need something.” Dean orders firmly, still a little hesitant to leave his brother, despite his rapid recovery. Sam gives him a look that says ‘why are you still here’, and that’s all the go-ahead Dean needs, jogging out to the bunker’s garage.

He’s on the road in no time, pushing Baby a little harder than he would normally. Patting her dash, Dean promises to give her an oil change when he’s back as an apology for making her go fifteen over the speed limit. Anticipation has him tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and shifting restlessly; he’s so anxious to see Cas he has trouble focusing on the traffic signs as he guns it towards Kansas City. His thoughts are going in all directions, each of them sharing a common theme: Castiel. Dean’s not one to dwell on emotions, but there comes a point where he decides he’s real damn sick of running from them. What does Sam always say? Some sappy shit about how owning up to your feelings will make you stronger in the end? And how many times had Dean written him off? The hunter can’t ignore the only conclusion to be drawn from not only his nerves over finding Cas, but every other instance that’s had him disturbingly emotional over the former angel.

He had never felt complete with Lisa, not with Cas just gone from his life, like he had been after the near-apocalypse, and that’s not even considering how Sam had been torn from his side as well. Not only had Sam’s absence been plaguing him, but Castiel’s was piled on as well. He’d felt even worse the year spent searching for him in Purgatory, full of wrath and rage and a fierce determination to find Castiel. It’s not just that though. It’s how he feels this certain brand of loneliness when Cas is away, always finds his thoughts jumping to him during hunts, on the road, last thing before he falls asleep and first thing when he wakes up. Well, Dean’s tired of skirting the obvious, sick of ignoring his feelings time after time again while they wreck havoc on his heart in the worst of ways. His feelings are clear as day, both the sadness inspired from the angel’s absence and the joy derived from his presence, yet he always manages to push it to the back of his mind and ignore it. The way Dean breathes a little easier when Cas is around, how he nearly goes insane when trouble has found the angel and he’s not there to see him through it sends a clear message that Dean has always been too scared to swallow down. The only conclusion to be drawn from all of this is that Dean _has feelings for Cas_. Not just any feelings, either; these are definitely romantic in nature, and the hunter will be damned— again— if he tries to downplay it as something else this far in the game. 

The truth of it’s simple. Dean feels deep affection and has a strong desire to care for Cas, and has for longer than he cares to admit now. How many more chances is he going to get before the opportunity to have something, anything with the angel passes him by? Fuck, he almost lost him for good just a couple days ago with the whole disastrous closing the gates of Heaven fiasco. So now that he’s pulled his head out of his ass, he’s sworn to himself that yeah, he’s going to do his very best to get this out and just tell Cas, because after going through so damn much, Dean feels an insatiable craving to be close to him, in every way he can — he can only hope Cas feels the same. He’d said about all that ‘profound bond’ shit, right? And Dean’s declaration in the crypt had been enough to shock Cas out of his Naomi-induced trance, so that has to count for something. Dean shakes his head, clenching and unclenching his hands around the steering wheel. He can worry about the feelings stuff later. Right now, what’s important is finding his best friend. 

Following Sam’s succinct instructions, Dean navigates through the busier part of the city to the outskirts, where the roads become less compact with fewer lanes, and the buildings aren’t towering into the sky. The further in he goes, the sketchier it looks; there are fewer buildings surrounding businesses of all kinds, and more bars, rundown apartment complexes, and motels even he wouldn’t settle for staying at. _What kind of trouble could Cas have gotten up to down here?_ Dean tries not to dwell on it, because any number of things could’ve happened to the angel in a place like this, none of which are any good. This isn’t the kind of area where someone sees you looking lost and offers you legitimate help; this is where people offer you a ride only to take you somewhere and either kill you or any number of other things that make the hunter shudder to think about, especially when involving Cas. 

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind as he searches out Axtson Street, where this bar is supposed to be. Some faint but urgent voice in his head is wondering what the fuck Cas would be doing there, of all places. Well, Dean’s about to find out. The hunter makes a sharp right turn and follows the street, slowing to a crawl as he reads the names on the graffiti-marred buildings. About halfway down he spots a molding sign with green lettering spelling out _Mckay’s Taphouse_ in a medieval-style font. “What a dump,” Dean grumbles as he gets out and pops the trunk, walking around back to rifle through their vast collection of weapons in search of his trusty handgun. He’d be insane to walk into there without some sort of pistol on him, not to mention how instinctual it is for him to carry a weapon at all times. He finds it on top and checks to make sure it’s loaded, before carefully tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket, out of view. 

Dean slams the trunk shut and locks it, then takes a deep breath and sends a silent prayer out to Castiel, even though he’s sure the angel can’t hear him. After so many prayers sent trying to reach him after the fall, it’s become embedded in Dean’s mind to talk to Cas in his head as if he can hear him. Snow is falling down around him in thick flurries now, the wind whipping it sideways so it stings as it hits his bare face. It’s really cold, colder than it’s been since he was in Kansas as a child. It’s rare that they get snowfall here, but for whatever reason, this January is cold as Hell iced over. There’s got to be a solid foot of snow on the ground, and the hunter has to raise his feet high as he walks through it to avoid it soaking into his jeans. Luckily, the distance from Baby to the bar is short, and he pushes past the heavy wooden doors and into the comparatively warm establishment.

Dean takes a quick assessment of the place, as he’s always been conditioned to do. The inside reminds him of every shitty bar he’s been dragged through as a kid by his dad to act as an innocent distraction while hustles, wallpaper as tasteful as in every cheap motel they’ve ever crashed at. The handful of people who look either homeless, part of a gang or both make him instantly on guard, though the weight of the gun in his pocket eases him, if just a little. Two people sit at the bar, and from where Dean is, he can see one person working back there, idly wiping a ratty cloth over the counter. No sign of Cas. His heart falls; he should’ve known not to get his hopes up, that it wasn’t likely for Cas to be hanging out in some shitty bar after _falling from Heaven_ , yet he still can’t stifle his disappointment. 

He snaps his focus back to what brought him here in the first place. The GPS system had tracked Cas’ phone down to right here, and it only took the hunter a little over an hour to make the trip out, so if Cas was here, even for a minute, he couldn’t have gone too far. He figures the best place to start is by asking the bartender a few questions. Cas definitely doesn’t look anything like the people who must be regulars, so no doubt if he was in here the bartender would remember him. With that thought giving Dean a new flash of hope, he strides up to the bar and takes a seat between the two people there, one biker-esque dude with a long gray beard and matching hair, clad in leather and probably a hundred pounds over weight, and a tall guy who looks to be in his mid-twenties, wearing a black sweatshirt with a knit cap on his head, hidden by the hood pulled over it. Between the two of them, his attention is drawn to the guy in the sweatshirt. Where Biker Guy looks casual and minds his own business, Sweatshirt Guy gives Dean a glance and then hunches over on himself even more, avoiding eye contact. 

“What can I getcha?” The bartender asks, now standing in front of Dean. He’s heavily tattooed, maybe Sam’s age or a little younger, and just as lanky. Dean reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his FBI badge, flashing it for the bartender to see, and waves him off.  
  
“I’m just here to ask you a few questions. I’m looking for this guy, about six feet tall, dark hair, blue eyes, last seen wearing a tan trenchcoat over a suit. He was last spotted in this area. Have you seen him around, or maybe passing through?” Dean asks, easily slipping into his professional fed cover up like it’s a second skin. The bartender is standing straighter, looking almost panicked if Dean had to put a name to the expression he’s sporting, and the hunter can only wonder what he’s done to be this nervous when face to face with an ‘agent’.  
  
“Sorry sir, but no one dressed in anything nicer than what you’re wearing has been in this bar for quite some time,” the bartender says, and from what Dean can tell of body language, he’s telling the truth. 

Next to him, Sweatshirt Guy’s eyes dart up to his face, and the shock he sees there in his dilated pupils unnerves him. That settles it. This guy knows something important and there’s no way in hell Dean is going to leave this rock unturned.  
He shifts his body to face Sweatshirt Guy, muscles flexing in his jaw as he works through deciphering his body language. “What about you? Have you seen him, maybe know of his whereabouts?” Dean prompts, his voice now a degree harder and colder than before. Sweatshirt Guy lifts his chin so he can make eye contact with the hunter, and now all he sees is steely resolve, not a trace of uncertainty left from just seconds ago.  
  
“I haven’t seen anyone like that ‘round here,” he answers, and the wheeze in his voice paired with his stained teeth make it more than clear that the kid must smoke a pack a day. Every alarm in the hunter’s brain goes off at his cagey response; the guy knows something about Cas, something bad, and is refusing to tell him. He’s just about to decide whether to try and be civil or just give into his desires, fist his shirt and yell demands for answers in his face, but when his eyes catch what Sweatshirt Guy is holding against his thigh, he does neither. 

“Why don’t you come out to my car, I have a few more questions I’d like to ask you.” Dean’s voice has gone from friendly and open to dark and murderous just like that, and the difference is so obvious both the bartender and Biker Guy turn to look at him. He ignores them, staring Sweatshirt Guy down, trying to keep his eyes off of _Cas’ phone_ that he’s holding in a death grip. Sweatshirt Guy says nothing, but gets up and follows Dean back into the cold, letting the doors to the bar swing shut behind them. Once they’re out of view of anyone who might’ve watched them leave, Dean grabs the man and slams into the wall hard, pinning him there, one hand around his throat while the other has automatically retrieved his gun and is now holding it inches from his face. Sweatshirt Guy gasps and reflexively drops Cas’ phone into the snow piled up beneath them. “That’s a pretty nice phone you got there,” Dean growls, eyes boring into Sweatshirt Guy’s. “Wanna tell me how you got it? And don’t bother lying, because not only do I already know, but there’s a bullet right here just looking to bury itself in your skull.”


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously 'Baby, it's Cold Outside' :)
> 
> *** TRIGGER WARNING FOR VIOLENCE AND IMPLIED MUGGING IN THIS CHAPTER ***
> 
> Please keep in mind I wrote this months ago, long before Misha was ever attacked in Minneapolis. What happens in this chapter is no reflection upon the incident. I feel horrible about what happened to Misha and am very glad he's doing much better now, and would never write something based off of the brutality he suffered. 
> 
> Beta'd by and written for my lovely Astrophilla <3

Sweatshirt Guy’s frozen for a full two seconds before he’s slamming his knee up into Dean’s crotch, the sudden gut-wrenching pain flaring in his balls causing the him to suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t even have time to recover before the hit is followed up with a heavy right hook, catching Dean squarely in the mouth so hard his head jerks back and he feels his teeth cut through his bottom lip. Blood gushes into his mouth and down his chin and the burning sensation paired with the throbbing ache of his groin only fuels his rage further. “Sonovabitch!” Dean snarls, ramming the man back up against the wall with all his force to bear, so hard he hears the sound of the kid’s skull cracking in contact with the bricks. Unrepentantly, Dean wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes, fingers seeking out the vulnerable spaces between trachea and ligament, and presses even tighter, enjoying watching the guy gasp desperately for breath and claw feebly at his restraining hands. Dean presses the barrel of his gun into the man’s jaw and stares hard into his eyes, ignoring the blood pooling in his mouth, pain between his legs and the resulting stomach-churning nausea.

“You have one more try, pal. Fail to answer my questions and I’ll kill you,” Dean spits out a wad of blood at his dangling feet, trying to clear his mouth so he can speak. “You’re lucky I haven’t already. _Talk_.” His grip on Sweatshirt Guy’s neck loosens just enough that he can speak, but not enough for him to try and wrestle his way out again. Not that Dean hasn’t adapted, because he has—keeping his whole front pinning the guy in place. By the look on his purpling face, he’s not in any condition to try again anyways.  
  
“He was wearing—trenchcoat,” the man gasps, chest heaving rapidly as he strives to breathe.  
  
“I know that already, tell me what the fuck you did to him!” Dean roars, lifting him up and banging him against the wall to get him talking faster.  
  
“He—he was walking under the bridge—” another choked gasp of air intake, “—few guys n’ me jumped ‘im—” a fit of coughing and Dean loosens his grip just a touch more so the man doesn’t asphyxiate on him, “—Took his phone n’ coat n’ stuff. Didn’t have no money on him….”  
  
“When! Where!” Dean barks, and the man gasps,  
  
“A w—while ago.” Dean’s hand has automatically begun to clench tighter in response to the rage burning through him, fast spreading and hungry to devour all it can, and now the man is wheezing, eyes rolling blindly as his body convulses in a last ditch attempt to get some much-needed oxygen to his deprived brain. Dean grits his teeth, feeling cold fire raging behind his eyes as he squeezes harder and bashes the man’s head into the wall hard enough to knock him out. 

Sweatshirt Guy collapses in an unconscious heap at Dean’s feet, and it takes all the self restraint the hunter has not to go on beating him to death. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this, with a vicious, animalistic _need_ to hurt the man who’s done this to Cas. It’s that tiny part of him, quieted down between all the fury and aggression and fear for Cas that reminds him he’s not a killer of man, even if this guy has seriously, seriously fucked with one of the two people Dean would kill for in a heartbeat. Anything, anyone… he takes a deep breath through his nose and drops to his knees in the snow beside the man, dipping a hand into his back and sweatshirt pockets in search of anything that he might’ve taken from Castiel. All he finds is a beat up lighter, a crumpled ten dollar bill, and of course, Cas’ phone that had been dropped earlier. 

Dean collects his gun and the phone and straightens up, gazing down disdainfully at the sprawled out douchebag at his feet. Now the bastard’s in no position to mug anyone anytime soon, and Dean has somewhat solid information on where to find Cas and what’s been done to him. The blind rage is fizzling out now, washed away by sheer concern and an increasing worry for the angel. The guy crumpled behind him is pretty beaten up, but he’ll be fine in the long run; or at least, Dean didn’t injure him permanently. “The bridge,” Dean mutters to himself, brushing snow from his jeans and heading back to where Baby is parked across the street. “Gotta find that damn bridge,” he vows to himself, unlocking the Impala and sliding in behind the wheel. He probes at his swollen, still slightly-bloodied bottom lip and runs his tongue over the cut, tasting the blood beginning to dry there as he fishtails around and eases his foot on the gas, going slow so he can observe the landscape around him. There’s gotta be a bridge around there somewhere, hopefully close by. He’s doubtful Cas is still there, especially having no idea how long ago the angel was mugged. 

Just thinking the last word makes Dean sick to his stomach. Cas, even without angel mojo, can hold his own in a fight, so he must’ve been either seriously overpowered and outnumbered, or in no condition to fight. The longer Dean thinks about it, the more anxiety gnaws at his stomach. What if Metatron had hurt Cas somehow and sent him to Earth in a state where he couldn’t defend himself or fight back? The hunter’s guts are in knots at the thought and he urges Baby a little faster, scanning his surroundings even more diligently. A freeway overpass comes into view and Dean exhales loudly at the sight. It’s gotta be the bridge Sweatshirt Guy was talking about, Dean’s sure of it. He slows way down and leers out the window at a small group of people loitering underneath, off the road, some standing and some sitting, probably all of them homeless. After just a few seconds of surveillance, Dean can tell that Cas isn’t one of them. 

Not yet willing to lose hope, he coaxes Baby onward, eyes out for anyone walking around. _Come on, buddy, where are you?_ Dean wonders in another silent prayer. He doesn’t even bother to wonder if Cas can hear him, too busy scouting the area for any Cas-sized figures wandering about. He thinks he’s got to keep the bridge at the epicenter of the circles he’s patrolling and gradually go further until eventually he has to spot Cas. The crazy ass snow falling so thickly Dean can hardly see -- even with Baby’s wipers on full -- doesn’t deter him. Just as the hunter squints out the window, leaning forward to see as far into the snowy haze as possible, he spots a figure hunkered down, dragging itself along the sidewalk with an uneven step, almost limping. 

Dean slams the brakes so fast and hard Baby skids a few feet on the black ice beneath the surface snow on the road until her tires find traction and she comes to a halt. “Cas!” Dean is yelling as he wrenches the door open, not even sure if it is him, but the feeling in his gut screams that it is. He shuts the door so the snow doesn’t get in and ignores everything around him as he runs to the figure, which has stopped walking and is facing him. A few feet closer and the hunter’s heart nearly explodes in his chest with fervent relief. It _is_ Cas. “Oh my God, _Cas_ ,” Dean gasps as he throws his arms around Cas’ figure and buries his face in the angel’s soaked dress shirt. Cas croaks Dean’s name out, and though his voice is so scratchy the word’s almost unidentifiable, the icy wet leeching heat from his cheek fills him with reassurance. He found Cas, Cas is alive, Cas is— 

The hunter pulls Cas back just enough so he can take him in. Cas is smiling hugely at Dean, relief evident in those stunning blue eyes that are shining extra bright, but that’s not what has Dean’s attention, great though they are. Dean’s heart jumps into his throat, stomach sinking his heels as his eyes rove the angel’s face, realizing that Cas has _fallen_. Dual trails of blood have trickled from each nostril and dried, his left eye’s swollen shut and shining a bruised purple-black, and there’s a cut in his left eyebrow that’s barely scabbed over. His once white dress shirt’s soaked through, plastered to his chest, streaked with both mud and blood, and his slacks are in no better condition. “Holy fuck, Cas, what the hell did they do to you?” Dean asks, trying to keep the raw fury out of his voice when he thinks back to the mugger he caught and the others still running free. For a second, Dean wants nothing more than to hunt each one of them down and beat the living shit out of them. The fantasy doesn’t last long— A wheezing cough from Cas reminds the hunter that the now ex-angel needs him and he needs Cas.

“I—I was assaulted only a few hours after I fell, w-while wandering through this part of the city. Four men cornered-d me and… I’m so weak now, Dean. I couldn’t d’fend myself.” Cas’ face is downcast and he looks infinitely sad, a millennia-old being, aching with weariness and burdens too great for his now-frail human body. It breaks Dean’s heart in every way, and he instinctively clutches onto Cas tighter, drawing him closer. “‘Nother man took pity on me, gave me some change t’ call you with, and I used ‘t all trying to reach you. Unfortunately none of the numbers w-worked, I do understand that you change a lot…” Cas’ eyes are apologetic and sadness tears through Dean’s chest like a wild, hungry animal. “I’m very glad you have found me now,” Castiel finishes softly, his eyes gentle on Dean’s, looking like Dean’s salvation and hope and just _everything_ all in one. He’s never been looked at that way before, but it suddenly sinks in that now is the least appropriate time to think about it, because Cas is out here like this because of _him_. 

“Fuck, Cas, I am so damn sorry. None of this should’ve happened to you, and it’s all my fault for not finding you earlier. Fuck, I’m such a fucking dumbass.” Dean’s overwhelmed with shame and guilt like cinderblocks collapsing onto his back, crushing him.  
  
“Dean, this isn’t y-your fault—”  
  
“Yes it is! Look at you! You’ve been human for not even forty-eight hours and you’ve already been mugged, had the shit beaten out of you—” Something finally clicks in Dean’s mind, registering how very cold and wet Cas is, and must’ve been since he fell, “—you’re freezing cold and probably starving…” Dean clenches his jaw to ward off the emotion threatening to overpower his thin self control. “Let’s just get you home, ASAP.” Dean takes Cas’ hand in his, wincing at the way it feels like holding the hand of an ice sculpture, and guides him back to the idling Impala, holding open the passenger side door for him. Cas gets in and Dean runs around to his side, folding himself in as well and shutting the door a little too forcefully behind him. Immediately he’s cranking up the heat to full and aiming all the vents at Cas, who’s just sitting there, soaked and bloodied, looking like the happiest man alive, gazing at Dean. The hunter understands neither the expression nor the reason for it. Shouldn’t he be miserable?

“Cas, seriously, how are you feeling? I know this is all new to you and you’re not used to this shit, especially the pain and cold,” Dean asks, looking over at the former angel as he turns onto the road and lays his foot heavy on the gas, eager to get the hell back to the bunker. Baby’s tires spin in the snow, engine a whining growl as Dean pushes her to drive through the growing layer of white blanketing the road. He’s cursing himself for not getting snow tires or chains, because now Baby is exerting herself trying to move, plowing through it at an infuriating pace. “Come on, you can do it,” he urges her, gradually adding more weight to the gas as she picks up speed.  
  
“‘M very happy t’ see you, Dean. I-I want t’ go _home_ , back t’ the bunker, with you,” the angel declares, voice soft, but with a note of something strong and yearning. Dean’s heart swells in his chest, thinking that maybe Cas no longer sees Heaven as his home, but rather the bunker, with Sam and Dean and Kevin. The hunter chuckles weakly to cover up how choked up that actually makes him.  
  
“I meant your body, Cas, but uh, that’s really good to know.” Dean meets Cas’ eyes, which are practically fucking sparkling. Figures, only Cas’ eyes could do that and leave the hunter speechless. 

“Ah. Well, I can’t really feel m’ body or wounds like I ‘s able to when they w-were inflicted. I b-believe ‘numb’ is the word? M’ stomach‘s in discomfort ‘n my throat ‘n mouth are dry. All of that‘s only second to the absence of h-heat,” Cas confesses with a frown. Dean nearly slams on the brake and sends them hurtling into a tree.  
  
“Fuck! How did I not think to do something about that earlier! Oh fuck Cas, I’m so sorry, I’m fucking everything up! You’re hurt and starving and fucking hypothermic, we need to get you warm and treat your injuries right now,” Dean declares, guilt nearly swallowing him up just as the snow is trying to do. He can hardly see ten feet ahead of him, with the blizzard lashing the snow around the car, paired with fucking hail, because a snowstorm isn’t bad enough. “Change of plans, there’s no way we’re going to get back to the bunker with this snowstorm. We’re going to have to get a motel.” Dean’s so frustrated he could break something.  
  
“What ‘ppened t’ your lip?” Cas asks, concern pinching his brow as he looks over at Dean.  
  
“What?” The hunter looks in the rearview mirror and remembers his bottom lip was busted open. “Oh. Had a run in with an asshole, don’t worry about it.” It’s crusted with dried blood and slightly swollen, but definitely nothing, not next to Cas, who’s so cold he’s not even shivering. 

In fact, the more Dean assesses the ex-angel’s state, the more worried he becomes. After so many years, Dean’s become pretty in tune with Cas, both emotionally and physically. Right now his attention has left the blizzard and road outside in favor of noting just how different than usual Cas is, physically. The former angel’s breathing had become something Dean paced his own breaths to when he was anxious, or exhausted, or fighting off the pain from an injury, so now that they’re slow and shallow, it’s hard for him to not notice. Not to mention the slurred words, the dazed and out of it way his eyes have just before they slip shut and stay that way for a painfully long moment, with him slumped against the door. _Fuck, how bad_ is _his hypothermia?_ Dean stretches his arm out and presses two fingers into the side of the ex-angel’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He feels the faint, sluggish beats when he digs his fingertips in, and it terrifies him. Dad’s long-ago lessons of survival come to mind and he drags forward what his father had said about cases of hypothermia. They’d never encountered one before, but that hadn’t stopped Dad from drilling the information into his head, as if somehow he’d know Dean would need it at a much later time than when it was explained to him as a teenager. 

_Confusion. Lack of concern about one’s condition. Exhaustion. Drowsiness._ One by one the symptoms come to the surface, each one like a punch to Dean’s gut. He shoves them out of the way, because Cas obviously has all of them, and desperately tries to call up how in the actual hell he’s supposed to take care of him like this. He remembers Dad constantly telling him not to let the hypothermic person fall asleep, and to get them out of their wet or cold clothes and somewhere warm. “Cas! I need you to stay with me, buddy. You can’t sleep yet.” Dean raises his voice, trying to bring Cas out of his semi-unconscious state, and reaches over to shake his shoulder lightly. Cas jerks a little at the touch but otherwise doesn’t change position or appear any more coherent. “Cas, can you hear me? You need to stay with me, please, Cas,” Dean begs, his voice rough with panic. Maybe he needs to reverse the steps, get Cas warm and Cas will wake up. It has to work, because everything Dean’s trying isn’t rousing him. The hunter touches his face, says his name louder and louder, grips his icy hand in his own and pleads for him to open his eyes, all to no avail. 

Castiel’s face is so pale, drained of color, bloodied and bruised and slack. He’s bent over on himself and the door, body limp, and Dean is struck with how painfully, vulnerably _human_ Cas looks — _is_ — right now. It terrifies the older Winchester, right to his very core, like very few instances have ever been able to do. “We’ve got to get you warm,” Dean announces under his breath, foot back on the gas as he urges the Impala down the road in search of the nearest motel. If Dean didn’t know any better from the barely-there pulse in Cas’ neck, he’d think the former angel is dead. He’s not there yet, but there is no way in hell Dean’s going to let him get any closer. Cas is going to live, goddamit, and Dean is going to save him right the fuck now.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for my dear Astrophilla <3

A huge, rusted sign with ‘MOTEL’ inscribed into it with neon red lettering appears through the chaos of viciously falling snow ahead like a beacon and Dean feels nearly sick with relief. The feeling is quickly chased away when his attention automatically snaps back to the unconscious angel riding shotgun. This whorehouse, drug-deal central motel would on any other circumstance have Dean sleeping in the car, but right now, with a blizzard in full force and a hypothermic, injured, newly-human Cas, it looks like heaven. Dean pulls into the parking lot slowly so as not to skid on the ice, and though he can’t see the parking space lines through the snow, he does his best to guess where they might be before he kills the engine. He reaches under the back seat and draws out his and Sam’s emergency duffle, where they keep a few changes of clothes and several other things just in case they need them and have somehow lost their main bags. They’ve not had to use it much before, but Dean is damn glad he had the foresight to pack one, because they need it now more than ever.

Dean slides the bag strap over his arm so it slides down and catches at the crook of his elbow, then reaches over and wraps an arm around Cas’ shoulders, hooking the other under the angel’s knees. He grunts, trying to get Cas into the right position and just about manages, gathering him against his chest, holding his freezing, soaked body tight. Dean scoots back over to the driver’s side and braces himself for the howling wind and snowy hail storm, pockets his keys, adjusts his grip on the angel, and throws open the door. The wind pelts him with the tiny balls of ice and the snow is soaking through his clothes at an alarming rate, even as he does his best to sprint towards the motel office, neither the black ice nor his load of angel and duffle helping him get there in one piece. By some miracle he makes it without any falls, yanking the door out of his way by awkwardly grappling with it using the hand poking out from under Cas’ knees. He barrels inside, only stopping to catch his breath once the door has slammed shut behind him. 

There’s a guy with stringy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail behind the front desk, staring at Dean while chewing on the Snickers bar he has in one hand. Dean’s pretty sure the kid’s on numerous different drugs and that he hasn’t seen the sunlight in a while, but at the moment, he not in the mood to care. “Can I get a room?” Dean pants, still struggling to get a grip on his breathing. The man looks disinterestedly from Cas’ unconscious and underdressed form in Dean’s arms to the impatient expression on Dean’s face, and nods slowly, setting the candy bar down to place his fingers on the keys of the ancient computer’s keyboard.  
  
“Cash or credit?” the guy asks. Dean shifts to hold Cas more securely in his arms, fiercely protective of him and not afraid to admit it, especially with the way the guy keeps staring at Cas with a look the hunter doesn’t like at all. The guy is peering at him expectantly and Dean struggles to reach his hand around to his pocket while holding Cas, but somehow manages to fish around for it and pull it out. With a considerable amount of difficulty, he extracts three twenty dollar bills and slaps them onto the counter. 

The man reaches behind him to pull a set of keys from the numbered hooks on the wall and hands them to Dean, who nearly drops his wallet trying to hold both things at once and maintain his grip on Cas. He takes a quick glance at the number imprinted onto the keys—14—and makes his way down the hall in search of the room. Castiel’s still alarmingly unresponsive, his head lolling against Dean’s collarbone, arms swinging freely with each step Dean takes. He finds their room with a sigh of relief and awkwardly jams the key in the door, jerking it around until it clicks and he pushes his way inside, kicking the door shut behind him. There’s only one queen-size bed at the center of the room and Dean couldn’t be more thankful for it, for the shelter, no matter how shitty. He’s so relieved to finally get Cas somewhere safe that he doesn’t even pay how grimy the place is any attention, with its lingering scent of cigarette smoke in the air, stained psychedelic patterned carpet, and lack of furnishings. 

Dean lies Cas gently down on the bed and then drops the duffle, freeing his hands so his fingers go straight to the ex-angel’s throat to feel for his pulse. For a few horrifying seconds he can’t find anything, but when he presses harder against the artery, he feels the faint, labored rhythm of Cas’ heart still working away and thanks every deity to exist. “You’re gonna be okay, Cas, I promise. I’ve gotcha,” Dean murmurs as he pulls a jack knife out the side of his duffle and flicks the blade out. His mission now is to get Cas warm, and the first step to doing so is to get him away from any source of cold, which is most pressingly his drenched clothes. Dean fists his hands in each side of Cas’ shirt and yanks hard, causing the buttons to rip away and scatter across the bedspread, baring Cas’ chest. Dean sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes fall on the exposed skin, a patchwork of blue and purple bruises, and ice spills through his veins. When Cas is better, he swears he’s gonna hunt down every last one of those fuckers who touched him and _maim_ them. 

Wasting no time, Dean dips the blade under the waistband of Cas’ slacks, carefully adjusting the blade so the sharp part isn’t in danger of cutting skin, then deftly twists his wrist and slices through the dress pants from hip to ankle. He quickly cuts through the other pant leg as well, then pulls the wet fabric away from Cas’ legs and torso, flinging the ruined shirt and pants into a sodden heap on the floor. With Cas on the verge of death and looking weak, beaten, and so very helpless, all Dean feels is a visceral desire to protect and care for him. He’s just got to get Cas’ damp boxers off, and then he can start to warm him up. The soaked-through white cotton leaves little to the imagination, but Dean’s so panicked that it barely even registers. Frantically, he cuts through the thin fabric and tosses it to join the other discarded clothes on the floor. 

Cas has been ominously silent and unresponsive through the entire process, and with each passing second, it’s only serving to fray Dean’s nerves more. The hunter crouches down beside his duffle bag and yanks the zipper back, rummaging through in search of a spare pair of his boxers. He finds a well-worn, but thankfully clean, navy blue pair and straightens up, turning to Cas with them in hand. Though he’s dressed Sammy on countless occasions, when he was little enough to need help putting on clothes or too injured to get his clothes back on after Dean had patched him up, there’s something about dressing unconscious Cas that’s painfully different. He doesn’t have time to consider why though; Cas still hasn’t moved or done _anything_ but lie there limply since he passed out in the car. The motion of slipping his feet through the leg holes and pinching the waistband in his fingers as he drags the boxers up Cas’ thighs until they settle around his hips is both alien and muscle memory. 

“Alright buddy, let’s get you under the covers,” Dean says softly, as if talking to Cas like he’s awake will make him feel better. He shifts the angel’s body over to peel back the blankets and sheets, then quickly slides Cas in under them. His fingers find the fly of his own sodden jeans to unbutton and unzip them, letting them drop to the ground before stepping out of them and shucking off his many layers of shirts and jackets. Once he’s clad in just his boxers, he climbs under the covers right next to Cas, taking a moment to pull the blankets up over their shoulders securely before they make contact. With any heat securely locked in, Dean rolls onto his side and, like diving headfirst into an icy lake, pulls Cas into his arms. A startled gasp escapes through his gritted teeth at the shock of Cas’ frozen back touching his chest, but he fights the instinct, refusing to let go. Instead, he tugs the comforters and blankets over them, up to their chins, and curls his body around Cas’ prone form, entwining their legs and snuggling Cas up flush against his side. The two are chest to chest, and Dean feels like he’s cuddling with an ice sculpture. That is, until the sculpture responds for the first time, giving a full body shudder before burrowing closer into the warmth of Dean’s embrace. Just that small indication of life is enough to make Dean’s eyes water with sheer relief.

Cas gives a deep exhale as his body once again falls slack, still pressing against Dean. The movement is weak but needy, and he nuzzles his face against the hunter’s hair, stubble rasping over Dean’s skin as he moves. “Cas? Buddy, can you hear me?” Dean asks gently, twisting one arm up so he can run his fingers through the former angel’s still damp hair and scratch comfortingly. Cas doesn’t respond, but Dean just tightens his grip, pulling Cas even closer and whispering soothing words he’s sure neither of them really understand but might at least provide some level of comfort. The shivering escalates until Cas’ teeth are chattering and Dean swears the whole bed frame is trembling with them. He’s curling in on himself, on Dean, like he’s trying to make himself as small and close to the heat source as possible. It’s heartbreaking, how this mighty Angel of the Lord has been reduced to a frail human body, relying on Dean’s metabolism to keep him alive. The complete and utter trust Cas shows, always has shown, makes Dean’s heart swell in his chest. 

From his dad’s hypothermia lecture, Dean remembers that shivering is a good sign, meaning Cas’ body is trying to keep him alive again. It fills Dean with hope, each time Cas makes some soft sound or wiggles impossibly closer, as if he’s trying to escape his own pain-riddled body and lose himself in Dean. The hunter’s holding on so tight, rubbing his hands up and down Cas’ smooth back, attempting to massage some warmth back into his muscles and reassure him that Dean’s there, he’s not gonna leave him, he’ll keep him safe. Cas melts into the touch, the muscular lines of his body going loose as heat sinks in and renders them pliant, whole body bending and folding to conform to Dean’s. He can’t deny how perfectly they fit together, his knee fitting just right inside the crook of Cas’, Cas’ head tucked underneath his chin. 

Dean’s fingers curl into the hair at the back of Cas’ skull as he instinctively presses a kiss to the top of Cas’ head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he waits for the shock of what he just did to settle in. He stays there with held breath, but it never does. All he feels is warm inside, if not outside, and he wonders why the hell it had to take Cas becoming hypothermic to get them this close. The hunter is exhausted, his body longing to succumb to sleep, but he forces himself to stay awake to monitor Cas’ condition. Not like he could fall asleep without knowing Cas is okay or not, which is why he’s so damn sleep deprived in the first place. His eyelids are drooping as the minutes tick by, but with each one, Cas is gradually thawing out, his body going limp in Dean’s embrace. The older Winchester cuddles him closer as the shivers gradually subside into nothing, wishing with neither regret nor shame that he could kiss the color back into Cas’ lips. His nerves calm down with each degree Cas’ body warms up, with each improvement. 

Cas is mostly quiet, save for a few noises that resemble whimpers and the occasional hitched breath and deep sigh. His body isn’t freezing any longer; Dean can touch his skin without feeling a temperature difference, and he’s so relieved he could fall to his knees and sob. Cas is alive, Cas is here, huddled in his arms, and Dean feels a certain brand of visceral pleasure having him there -- _his_ Cas -- where no one can hurt him or touch him, giving Dean the exclusive right to care for him. He’s the only one he trusts to do it right, to keep constant vigilance on his rising temperature and regular breaths, to make sure his fingers massage with just the perfect amount of strength into the muscles of Cas’ back, to monitor his heartbeat. Beneath the blankets with Cas snugged up against him, well, Dean’d be lying if he said he’s experienced anything better. He can only imagine how much more amazing it will be once Cas is conscious. A drowsy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he looks at the serene lines of Cas’ face in sleep, and he runs a hand through the angel’s mussed up hair, planting one more kiss to the top of his head before sleep finally wins out and drags him under. 

***

Cas comes to slowly, and it’s in this act that he is able to truly appreciate human senses for the first time. Everything is just so _new_ , and this time, it’s not in an agonizing way that makes him wish fiercely to have his Grace back. Warmth is encompassing him, so much that he feels sweat dewing on his skin, and not only is it like nothing he’s ever experienced before, but it has a strange effect on his emotions, making him feel safe and content, and something else that he can’t identify but that sends sweetness curling up low in his belly. He feels a softness against his skin that smells like laundry detergent and an even stronger, headier scent that he instantly recognizes as Dean, and it’s like he wants to breathe it in forever. Dean. Dean is here with him, in a bed, and just the thought alone sends a hundred different emotions rushing through him, all of which are even more pleasant than the bodily sensations he’s feeling now. 

His body aches, fatigued and weary, and there are assorted points of pinching or cutting pain dappled over his ribs and his face, but it’s nothing compared to the bliss he feels as he becomes more conscious of what’s happening. He slowly cracks his eyes open, blinking away the lingering sleep-induced blurs, and Dean’s sleep-softened face right next to his pulls into focus. The hunter’s face is just inches away and his body is even closer, his limbs entwined with Cas’ own. He’s very aware of every point where their skin touches, every hot breath Dean releases against the side of Cas’ face, and he feels a peculiar desire to somehow be even closer to the hunter. 

Cas’ now human eyes, though weak in comparison to his vision as an angel, can still pick up every detail of Dean in front of him, and he can only draw one conclusion from what he sees before him: Dean Winchester is beautiful, to both angelic and human eyes, especially so in his sleep. Cas had never got to be this close to him while he slept before, and seeing him now, he vaguely wonders at the beauty of his Father’s creation. The rough, haggard edges of Dean’s face appear softer like this, with his eyes closed, blond eyelashes barely dusting the freckles scattered over his cheeks. His full lips are slightly parted, and the ex-angel traverses the perfect curvature of them with his human sight, committing the image to memory. Cas wants to reach out and run his fingers over the prominent cheekbones, wants to brush his thumb over the seam of the hunter’s lips, wants to be fully human and just _feel_. 

Never in all his many millennia of existence has Castiel ever felt so _good_. He feels small, for the first time, like the vulnerable, fragile things he’d tried to protect from the wrath of the supernatural for so long, and only now does he understand humans are even more so delicate and breakable. The throbbing in his half swollen-shut eye reminds him of that. As an angel, he’d never been able to appreciate the vulnerability of the human body and mind like he’s able to now. He’s always been the protector, the one to admire their sensitivity and frailty as something to treasure and protect. Now that he’s on the complete other side of things, rendered human himself, he finds it even more glorious, because he can fully appreciate how it feels to be protected, to be cared for. And he can honestly say that he’s not yet had the pleasure of experiencing anything so truly, sensationally divine. 

Dean’s breathing hitches and he scrunches up his nose, eyebrows pulling together before relaxing as he exhales deeply and opens his eyes, so Cas can finally see them. “Good morning, Dean,” Cas hums, smiling at the hunter’s taken aback expression, but then a moment passes and everything but drowsy contentment drains out of his face. He tightens his arm around Cas’ waist and pulls him closer, so the length of Cas’ body is flush with his own, their legs entangled with Cas’ face buried against Dean’s neck. He can smell the delicious Dean scent strongly here, and resists the urge to draw the flat of his tongue over the hunter’s throat, to _taste_ what already smells so enticing.  
  
“How are you feeling, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice deeper, huskier to Cas’ human ears. Or maybe it isn’t that Cas is human at all, rather just the way Dean sounds after waking up.  
  
“I feel… _good_ ,” Cas says, realizing how it’s an inadequate descriptor as soon as it leaves his lips. There are a thousand adjectives from dozens of languages that Cas wishes he could use to express the euphoria he’s never felt until now, but Dean looks pleased with the one he chose, if his crooked smile is anything to go by. 

“Your injuries don’t hurt too bad? And you’re not freezing your ass off anymore?” Dean questions, eyes roving all over Cas’ face and lingering where Cas is sure there must be some sort of abrasion. The former angel just shakes his head no, and Dean sighs in relief, running his flattened palm up Cas’ bare back, the press of his hand over the ridge of Cas’ spine oddly indulgent. He twists his hand around Cas’ nape, fingers slipping into the ex-angel’s hair and scritching at his scalp. Cas hums appreciatively in the back of the throat, sinking further into Dean’s touch.

“You scared the fuck out of me, Cas,” Dean says after a long moment, and his voice is remorseful, almost lamenting. “I—I thought you were dead.” The hunter’s voice audibly wavers on the last word, like it must’ve pained him to force it out. Cas doesn’t like the sound of that, the sadness it sparks within him, and opens his mouth in search of the right words to soothe all of Dean’s woes away. Dean stops him though, with a look in his eyes that strikes something deep in the angel, it makes him wait to speak. “I thought I…” Dean takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and then opening them, and resolve burns beneath their crystalline surface. “I thought I wasn’t going to get another chance to tell you that I... I _love_ you, Cas, and I have for so long, oh God.”


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Astrophilla <3

Dean flinches, fear plastered across his face as he searches Cas’ face for a reaction. The angel just smiles at him, feeling something so incredibly _beautiful_ exploding through his chest, and reaches up to fit his palm to the curve of Dean’s cheek, staring deeply into his eyes in hopes that he might communicate everything he feels, in that strange, but amazing, way Dean’s always been able to do with him. “And I have loved you, Dean, since I saw your soul for the first time, and infinitely more with each day that goes by,” Cas answers softly, and Dean’s entire body relaxes as he sighs heavily, joy inscribing itself into every feature on his face.  
  
“Then let’s get back to this,” Dean declares, squeezing Cas to his side to demonstrate what he means, “because I have sure as have hell waited long enough for it.” Cas chuckles at that and tucks his head back under Dean’s chin, resting his cheek against the jut of his collar bone and coiling his arms around the small of his waist.

Dean fingers tap the underside of Cas’ chin and the angel raises his head to meet his gaze curiously. “Lemme see that eye,” Dean breathes, angling Cas’ face so he can get a better look. Cas lets his eyes close, trusting as Dean gently probes the swollen eye with his fingertips, so delicately it causes no pain whatsoever. Dean gives a contemplative huff, and then Cas feels his lips right where his fingers had been, and the difference in sensation is somehow so much better. Dean kisses Cas’ swollen eye with the lightest of touches before settling back down into the mattress, pulling Cas on top of him effortlessly. Cas’ lax body moves without protest, easily rolling onto Dean’s stomach. With a content sigh, he slots his legs on either side of Dean’s and stretches his body out over the man’s hips and torso, looping his arms around Dean’s neck and nuzzling his face against the soft skin of his throat.

Dean presses his lips to the top of Cas’ head, and his hands wander down from his shoulders to his lower back, massaging lazily once more. The strong, talented fingers knead Cas’ aching muscles until they’re loose and pliant, and Cas can’t help the heavy sigh that tumbles past his lips at the feeling of his body wrapped in layers of blissful warmth and pleasure. It’s the complete antithesis of what he had initially experienced, when he was newly human. Then, it had felt like his vessel was a prison of inability and pain—such a previously powerful being anchored to something so weak and broken, where even walking was a physically demanding task, was torture. But he had quickly come to realize that human experiences aren’t as horrible as he had first believed. Leave it to Dean Winchester to change his view; he always did.

Dean carefully rolls them over so that they are now both on their sides, facing each other, and slots his legs with Cas’, one leg sandwiched between and the other hitched over Cas’ hip. He encircles Cas’ waist with his arms and pulls him close, and Cas can’t help but zero in on Dean’s lips—all he can do is imagine how they would feel moving over his own, ghosting over his skin, expelling hot breath, how they would _taste_. These are desires that have never been so strong before, though undeniably present ever since he pulled Dean from Hell. Being human must amplify his desperate needs, because right now, Cas has about a hundred of them, all revolving around the man in his arms. Dean’s eyes are fixed on him, and Cas feels the flush of blood rushing to his cheeks in response.

As if the hunter had heard Cas’ curious and longing thoughts, he leans in the few inches to close the space between them and then his lips are parting Cas’, and the entirety of the world narrows down to just the point of contact. Heat floods through Cas’ lips as Dean’s—so soft and pliant, but unrelenting all the same—catch Cas’ bottom lip between them, tugging lightly with maddening suction before pulling away, just long enough for Cas to capture Dean’s lower lip between his own. Something akin to the combination of a moan and a sigh escapes him, stifled by the warm cavern of Dean’s mouth. Eager for more, Cas darts his tongue out to draw the tip along the curve of Dean’s slick lower lip, and the _taste_ has him brokenly moaning Dean’s name, heat coiling low in his belly. His unique flavor is far from the bitter tang of blood, and the gritty earthen flavor of dirt, but like clear skies and spilling sunshine, distinctly _Dean_. Dean’s hand comes up to cradle Cas’ face in his palm and Cas can’t help but whine when a hot tongue dips into his mouth. His hips stutter against the mattress, and deliriously, Cas wonders if it is possible to explode from sheer pleasure alone.

Their kiss continues, only disrupted by breaks for breath or for one to breathlessly gasp the other’s name. Dean’s hands are everywhere, roving up and down Cas’ back, curling around his nape, cupping his face, running through his hair. The touch anchors him, keeping him from losing himself to the pleasure, losing himself in Dean, though that’s really all he wants to do. He wants to fully immerse himself in the sensations, wants to learn every tiny detail of Dean with his tongue, wants to recount each freckle and kiss each ridge of bone, each line of lean muscle. The pain of his wounds, the exhaustion of his body fades into nothing, there is no room for its recognition amid all the wonderful feelings assaulting him. Castiel doubts that there is a single thing this universe has to offer that could feel any better than Dean’s weight on him.

It’s only when Cas’ stomach contracts inside him with a sharp, gut-wrenching pang and an unignorable noise that Dean pulls back. Castiel appreciates the rosy pink flush over his cheeks, his eyes bright, lips red and moist, slightly swollen not only from the wound splitting the skin at the corner but from the attention they’d just received. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, stunning, captivating in every way. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, you must be friggin’ starving! When’s the last time you ate?” Dean demands, suddenly serious, worried eyes pinned to his face.  
  
“I have not eaten since becoming human,” Cas answers, brows furrowing in confusion at the pallid hue Dean’s face takes on, his eyes widening in horror.  
  
“Sonovabitch, Cas! Okay, I’m gonna run to the nearest food place and bring you back something. God, I am such a dumbass, you must feel like shit,” Dean apologizes, hastily disentangling himself from their pile of entwined limbs. Castiel can’t help the cry of protest he makes as Dean’s touch disappears, but when he tries to latch on with his legs and arms, he finds he’s too weak to even stop Dean from simply standing up. Dean frowns down at him, torn and concerned, before crouching next to his duffle bag and pulling out a small first aid kit. Castiel watches lamely as he removes a thermometer and strides back over to the bed, tapping Cas’ bottom lip with the cold end.

“Open up, I need to see if you’re even warm enough for me to leave you alone for a bit. I don’t need you getting hypothermic on me again,” Dean says, anxiety coloring his tone. Cas obediently opens his mouth and the hunter pokes the end of thermometer inside, resting it under the former angel’s tongue. While they wait for it to beep out its reading, Dean strokes a comforting hand through Cas’ hair, nails trailing over his scalp, and Castiel finds himself sufficiently distracted from the discomfort of his stomach. At the tone, Dean pulls the thermometer from his mouth, but Castiel is silently grateful for the hand he keeps brushing through his hair.

“You’re point six away from average body temperature, so I think you’ll live if I’m only out for a half hour. You have to do what I say though, okay? Stay under the covers and don’t get up, because you still aren’t stable enough for a temperature change yet. I’ll be back ASAP, I promise, just try and get some sleep and you won’t even notice I’m gone,” Dean finishes with a smile, already digging around in the dufflebag for clothes. Cas nods solemnly, unable to stop himself from admiring the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he steps into his dry pants and pulls them on entranced by the rippling flesh of his back as he lifts his arms to pull on a shirt. “Stop creeping on me, you’re meant to be sick,” Dean jokes with a jaunty wink and Cas ducks his head with a small apology, abashed.

He feels instantly colder without Dean at his side, but he isn’t sure how much of that is physical so much as psychological, the absence of Dean’s comforting heat leaving him shivering. Castiel doesn’t want Dean to go, doesn’t want to be left alone without him, but the violent protests of his stomach stop him from voicing his concerns. Castiel can handle a half hour away from Dean. He existed for billions of years without the human, he can continue on for another thirty minutes, no matter how much the thought sends an icy chill blossoming through his chest..

Dean is fully dressed now, just lacing his boots up, and a flighty, panicked feeling grips Castiel at the imminence of being alone. He has to bite his tongue to keep quiet, but Dean reads him like a book with a single glance, and crosses the room to perch beside him on the mattress. He ducks his head to kiss Castiel’s forehead, tilting his jaw with gentle hands to gain access to his lips, where he presses a single, cloying kiss before straightening and grabbing his wallet and keys from the nightstand. “I’ll be right back, buddy,” he promises, taking out a flip phone and setting it next to Cas’ side of the bed, “but if you need anything just call me with the emergency phone. My number’s the second on speed dial.” Cas nods, wishing away the twisting pains in his stomach. If they would just go away, Dean could stay. “Alright, see you in a half hour. Remember, stay under the covers and call if you need me.” With that, Dean heads out the door, shutting it and locking it behind him.

The room feels stiflingly silent and lonely in Dean’s absence. The bed is too big and too cold, and his aches and pains seem to intensify as shivers rack Castiel’s body. It’s strange for him to think of it as _his_ ; for so long, it had belonged only to Jimmy Novak, a vessel he was inhabiting. Jimmy is long gone now, his soul resting in Heaven, and now his body— _Castiel’s body_ —belongs to the former angel. Cas’ eyes slip closed and he reaches for the drowsiness he had felt earlier, but to his irritation, finds it’s been replaced with unquashable alertness. He digs deeper, pondering the intricacies of these new, and painfully vivid, human sensations. His thoughts bounce to Metatron, to Heaven, to all of the angels that have been cast from their home, all because of him. The concept sends ice through his veins and his chest tightens agonizingly. How did he allow for this to happen? How could he have been so foolish? All because of him, hundreds of terrified angels are walking the earth without their wings—Metatron has Heaven wrapped around his finger. The Scribe of God himself had ripped Cas’ Grace from him and taken it to commit the most awful of travesties, so not only has Castiel been divested of his Grace in the most violating of ways, but now bears the impossible weight of his brothers’ and sisters’ fall on his shoulders

What really makes his stomach churn though, coupled with a sickening feeling he recognizes as roiling shame and with self-disgust, is when he realizes what he did to the Winchesters in order to what, exactly? Eject angels from their home, turn over all power to Metatron? He abandoned Sam, lined up to die in order to shut the gates of Hell. He let Dean face the mess waiting for him inside the abandoned church in South Dakota alone, all because the only thing he could focus on was how he _needed_ to shut the gates of Heaven. Sam, one of the closest friends he’s ever had, and Dean, who was desperate to save his little brother and needed Cas’ help in doing so. He had forsaken them in his blind quest to help Metatron, and now he has been betrayed, Grace stolen, and the angels have fallen.

After his terrible actions, it’s truly a miraculous show of mercy that Dean searched for him at all. Castiel knew that Sam had been unable to complete the Trials and must be suffering terribly, giving Dean even less reason to leave and seek him out. It barely makes sense to him; Dean should be at Sam’s side, should despise him for the choices he made—Castiel did not deserve saving, let alone Dean’s affections. How long before the hunter realizes the full weight of what he has done? It surely won’t be long....

Without Castiel’s failing body to distract him, Dean is certain to come to his senses. Honestly, Castiel will be surprised if Dean ever comes back, rather leaving him there in the motel room to fend for himself in the way he deserves. It would only serve him right, after all he’s done, but he can’t deny that he wants -- _needs_ \-- Dean more than anything. After what he’s done… he doesn’t deserve Dean, though it does nothing to change how much he truly does love and need him. An almost painful prickling starts up behind Cas’ eyes, and it isn’t until streams of water start to trail their way down his face, that he realizes he is crying, one way the human body handles unpleasant emotions. Something about the act feels inevitable, the only logical way to handle the crushing grief, shame, and hopelessness. He pulls his knees up to his chest underneath the blankets and buries his face in them, surrendering himself to the wracking sobs. His body is still so weak and exhausted he eventually doesn’t have the energy to sustain the level of intensity of his weeping, the sobs gradually ebbing until he’s curled in on himself, his dehydration preventing his eyes from streaming more tears down his face.

The sound of the door unlocking has Cas whipping up his head to see Dean push into the room, arms laden with plastic bags, and kick the door shut behind him. “Alright, I think your very first meal as a newly hymenated mud monkey is gonna be a burger, because a diner was closest place open, and I didn’t wanna risk going too far. Here, I got you some macaroni and cheese and—” Dean looks up from where he’s setting the bags down on the desk his face falls, eyes flashing with fear. “Cas! What’s wrong? What hurts?” the hunter demands, jogging over to Cas’ side and placing a hand against his forehead to gauge his temperature, the other using his thumb to swipe at the tears falling from Cas’ eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely art for this chapter is done by my best friend Maya (brodestieltentylerjohnlockian.tumblr.com)! Go give her some love for this beautiful piece!


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by and written for Astrophilla <3

“I—I didn’t think you’d come back,” Cas chokes out, and voice cracking twice in the one sentence, the words rough and difficult to get out with the tightness of this throat. Dean’s face contorts with confusion, worry growing more apparent in the green depths of his eyes.  
  
“Why wouldn’t I? I told you I was just gonna be gone long enough to pick up some food, of course I came back,” Dean replies, and Cas doesn’t know where to start with his explanation. Everything is just a jumbled mess of nerves and emotions and he is entirely at their mercy, his mouth now just a passageway for whatever words the feelings push from him. 

“I left you, Dean. I left you and Sam, and I went with Metatron, just so he could use my Grace to eject every angel from their home—”  
  
“That’s what this is about? You think you’re to blame for what happened out there?” Dean flicks his head at the door, his eyes earnest and upset. “Cas, he took your Grace from you by force and used it for his own fucked up plans. It wasn’t your choice to do that; hell, you couldn’t even stop it,” Dean argues, his gaze earnest on Cas’ and the tautness of his muscles, the rigidity of his body communicates just how very seriously he’s taking this.  
  
“It _is_ my fault, Dean, all of this. I’m responsible for not only the fall of my brothers and sisters, but also for _failing_ you, especially when both you and Sam needed me most. If I had gone with you to save Sam instead of going with Metatron, none of this would’ve happened. Don’t you see? I ruined everything, and knowing that, no one would blame you for never coming back.” Cas’ voice had lost power as he talked, until the last few words are cracked and broken, small and quiet. He’s waiting, his whole body tense, waiting for Dean to realize and kick Cas out of his and Sam’s lives for good. 

The hunter is silent for a long moment and Castiel closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the disgust and anger come into his face. The tension has Castiel on edge, his nerves frayed as he waits for Dean’s inevitable snap. Only it doesn’t come. What follows is Dean’s hands on either side of Castiel’s face, palms curved to fit his cheeks. Cas opens his eyes and finds that Deans are mere inches away, still just as stern and burning with too many emotions for Cas to try and identify, though to his surprise, he doesn’t really look angry. “Cas. Castiel,” Dean starts, and the use of the angel’s full name comes as a bit of a shock. “I don’t care what the fuck you’ve done, because your heart was in the right place the entire time and always has been.” Dean takes a deep breath and continues. “You didn’t come with me to stop Sam, but that doesn’t make you a traitor. You did what you thought you had to do, and I would’ve done the same thing if I was in your place. So don’t think for one second I want you gone or am pissed at you for what you did.”

“But Dean—” Cas starts, stunned but needing to make Dean see his full point. Dean shakes his head sharply, a sign for Cas to stop talking, and the angel complies, listening raptly as Dean continues.  
  
“Do you know why I chose now to find you and tell you how I feel about you? It was because I couldn’t risk losing you again, especially with you never knowing that I—I _love_ you, Cas.” Dean swallows hard, smoothing his thumb over Castiel’s cheekbone back and forth absently as he keeps their eyes locked. “And if there was ever a time where you really needed to hear it, where you would know just how fucking serious I am about it, then it’s now. You can do all you did, and it doesn’t even begin to change my feelings for you.” Dean closes his eyes and sighs deeply, and with the exhale, releases the tension from his body. He leans his forehead against Castiel’s, their noses bumping, and his warm breath washes over Cas’ face. “So please understand.” Dean’s voice has turned soft and pleading, eyes mirroring his tone. 

“I do, Dean Winchester, and I love you,” Cas says, and he means it, wishing somehow he could articulate the millions of things on his mind. He settles for the human way of doing so, and cups the back of Dean’s neck with one hand, pulling his face close so he can kiss his hunter’s lips with passion and fervor. It’s in this way that he’s trying to communicate what his words would never do an adequate job of. By the way Dean reciprocates, delving deeper into the kiss and sucking at Cas’ bottom lip, tongue brushing over his own, he understands all of it and returns the sentiment. A moment later a strange, gurgling noise comes from Cas’ stomach, paired with a sharp pang of hunger, and the hunter pulls back, smiling at Cas widely.  
  
“We’ve got the rest of forever to suck face, right now we’d better get some food in you. I bought burgers and fries and mac n’ cheese, the true treasures of no-name diners,” Dean crows, getting up to retrieve the two plastic bags and then climbs into bed next to Cas, propping up a bunch of pillows against the headboard for them and then leaning back. Dean pulls out a styrofoam container and hands it to Cas, then grabs an identical one for himself before rifling through the other bag. He draws out a huge bottle of some unnaturally blue beverage, two forks, and a bottle of a dark, vaguely familiar soda. “Eat up,” Dean encourages him, slipping a plastic fork into the angel’s hand and setting the bottle of Gatorade at his side. 

Cas opens the container and finds a hamburger, fries, and macaroni and cheese, all separated into their own sections. He’s had hamburgers before and remembers how pleasant they had been to taste, so he starts there, dropping the fork in favor of lifting the burger to his mouth. He takes a bite of it and the many different flavors make him groan appreciatively. Dean chuckles, coiling an arm around Cas’ waist and the ex-angel leans against him as he swallows and goes in for another bite. “Good, huh?” Cas nods, reaching for one of the fries and pushing it past his lips and into his mouth.  
  
“When you’re in the position to appreciate it, human food is wonderful,” Cas announces as he crams several more fries into his mouth. “Thank you, Dean.”  
  
“Just wait till you try the pie I bought. It’s even better,” Dean says, taking a drink from his bottle of Coca-Cola. Cas uses his fork to spear a couple macaroni noodles and tries them. They too are ambrosial, and he hurries to shovel in another forkful as his stomach clenches, hungry for more. Everything tastes so good and he’s only now realizing how extremely hungry he is. It’s like he can’t eat fast enough. The angel finishes his food before Dean and feels sufficiently full, his stomach distended and aching satisfyingly. He drinks some of the Gatorade Dean bought him and enjoys how sweet it tastes, different from his food, but just as satisfying. 

Dean finishes up his food and clears everything off the bed but for a freshly baked pie resting in a plastic container, along with his fork. “Alright, this is going to be the best thing you ever taste, I guarantee it.” Dean pops the lid off, then jabs his fork into the very center and scoops out a bite of flaky crust and red cherry pie filling. “C’mere,” the hunter urges, spreading his legs in clear invitation, and Cas sits between them, the outsides of his thighs framed by the insides of Dean’s. He leans back against the hunter’s chest, turning his head so he can still see Dean even with his back to him, and the older Winchester holds the forkful of pie out to him, offering it up with an anticipatory smile. Castiel closes his lips around it and immediately moans, eyes falling shut as he revels in the perfect contrast of sugary and tart. “Good, huh?” Dean beams, cutting a bite for himself and taking it into his mouth eagerly before making a similar noise. 

“I understand the appeal now,” Castiel comments reverently, opening his mouth for the next bite. Dean wraps his free arm around Cas’ waist, hooking his thumb in the waistband of Castiel’s borrowed boxers, and the two finish off half the pie that way. The weight of Dean’s warm, reassuring body around Cas, the sound of his voice, just the hunter’s very presence makes him feel safe and wanted, like the hunter finds him valuable, something to cherish and treasure. The feelings those thoughts spur on are somehow even better than pie and hamburgers, and Castiel just wants to bask in them forever. After the next bite, Dean catches’ Cas’ chin between his thumb and index finger and tilts his face back so he has better access, securing their lips together. Dean’s tongue traces the curve of Castiel’s lips and he parts them eagerly for his hunter, the both of them lapping into the other’s mouth, chasing the taste of cherries. Cas catches the hunter’s bottom lips between his teeth gently and explores Dean’s mouth further, leaving him gasping Cas’ name and pressing himself desperately closer. 

Castiel’s whole body is flooded with heat, though a great deal of it is heading south, a somewhat foreign but welcome sensation. He finds himself rutting back against Dean, and the older Winchester pulls back just long enough to gaze into his eyes. “Looks like your vessel’s wised up to some of the other nice human activities, huh?” Dean prompts suggestively, rolling his hips forward so Castiel can feel the hard line of him pressing against his rear. Cas captures Dean’s mouth in another deep kiss, lips brushing over skin as he whispers,  
  
“Can we...?” He asks tentatively, unsure of what he’s exactly asking for, but know he _wants_ it. Dean bites his lip, a torn, indecisive look in his eyes, before shaking his head just a little.  
  
“We will Cas, I swear we will, but not now. You’ve just barely started recovering, but oh god, do I want to.” Dean’s eyes are glazed with lust and affection and Castiel nods, kissing the edge of his jaw.  
  
“We have plenty of time, Dean. Until then, may we continue with this?” Cas pushes Dean back, urging him to lie down, and curls himself around the hunter, resting his head on Dean’s chest to show what he means.  
  
“Hell yeah we can. This is definitely something I can get used to,” Dean muses, draping an arm over Castiel’s waist while the other plows through the angel’s hair. 

Castiel makes a content humming sound in the back of his throat, twisting his face upwards so he can kiss Dean’s throat with an open mouth, sucking at Dean’s pulse point before turning has face back into Dean’s collarbone and closing his eyes. He lets Dean hold him tight, lets the hunter keep his frail human body together, just as he keeps him in his love and care. “I love you,” Cas mumbles against Dean’s skin, and Dean kisses Cas’ head.  
  
“Love you too.” the hunter murmurs, and that’s the last thing Cas registers before falling into the peaceful void of sleep. 

***

Cas conks out moments later in the cradle of Dean’s arms, probably cozy and content as Dean is. Dean is on the verge of falling asleep as well, when he hears knocking against the door. He rolls out of bed and quickly tugs on a pair of jeans, making sure to wrap Cas up securely in the blankets so the sleeping angel won’t notice the lack of Dean’s heat. The hunter opens the door part way. A maid greets him with a cheery smile, one hand on the cart of cleaning supplies at her side. Dean positions himself so that she can’t see past him into the room, shielding Cas from her view, and then gives her a small smile in return. “Hey, sorry, I forgot to hang the ‘do not disturb’ thing on the door,” Dean greets the maid, “but it’s okay, we don’t need any maid service,” he finishes, smiling at her and flicking his eyes to the door in a silent gesture for her to leave.  
  
“Oh, sorry!” Her eyes are fixed on Dean, give him a long, interested once-over, and he feels irritation spark up inside him. “Did you want me to clean up really quick? I’ll just be a minute,” she promises, craning her neck to see around him and into the room.  
He deliberately closes the door a little further and shifts his position, blocking the girl’s view of him. Her eyes instantly jump back to Dean, almost predatory. She’s got pin-straight blonde hair that can only come from a bottle of dye, bleached white teeth, and a shitty tanning bed complexion. She’s got to be wearing at least two pounds of makeup, and her cleavage is on full display, no help from her black uniform polo shirt. A year ago Dean would’ve lured her into his bed in no time, drawn in by her bountiful curves and sultry willingness, but now, she honestly is the least appealing person who could be checking him out.  
  
“I think I’m good. I’ll be checking out soon anyways,” Dean replies, itching to get back in bed instead of making half-hearted small talk.

“My bad for bothering you!” she giggles, bending over to adjust something on the bottom of her cart so Dean can get a good view of her ass. He looks away, not in the mood to deal with this even a bit. He should be in bed with Cas right now, not waiting for the maid to leave. “It’s such a nice day out, do you have any plans?” she asks, voice saturated with a tone that is as far from genuine as you can get.  
  
“No plans outside of taking care of-” Dean doesn’t even get to finish before she continues on. “Y’know what girls really like? Caring guys, who take care of their friends. Me especially,” She goes on, plastering on her best smile and winking suggestively at the hunter. Frustration and annoyance sweeps through him and he opens his mouth to tell her to leave, but is stopped at the words that come from behind him. 

“You are correct in assuming that he is my friend, but he is far more than just that. He is mine, and mine alone,” Dean hears a deep, gravelly, and authoritative voice boom at his side. Cas pushes the door open all the way, and Dean and the girl turn to face him, the girl raising an eyebrow and Dean glaring at her. Cas faces them, arms crossed, clad only in Dean’s boxers and with a head full of bed hair, but looking like someone to be feared. The hunter first feels a twinge of worry that Cas shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone standing, but next comes awe. Cas, even weak, sick, injured, and dressed only in underwear, looks exactly like the mighty Angel of the Lord he had first met long ago, commanding of respect, radiating power and dominance. His face is screwed up into the expression he gets when he’s ready to smite someone, the one that strikes fear into everyone around him, that reminds them he is a creature of unfathomable strength and righteousness, and not all of that has gone away with being human.

“I suggest you leave,” Cas finishes, squinting his eyes and cocking his head, jealousy in every line of his face, in the tense posture he holds himself in. He looks like he’s sizing her up, imagining just how easy it would be to snap his fingers and have her disappear for good, given his angelic abilities back. Cas walks over and drapes his body over Dean’s, fitting himself to Dean’s side, and pulls him into a kiss, slipping his hands under the waistband of his pants. The girl gasps and Cas continues, Dean’s eyes rolling back into his lolling head at the feel of Cas’ tongue slipping against his own. The hunter hears the girl making her hurried exit, but only vaguely; for he’s too invested in what Cas’ determined mouth is doing.

“Let’s get back to bed,” Dean mouths, wrapping an arm around Cas’ shoulders and dragging him back to bed, all while not breaking the kiss. He lays him down, pulling the covers back over them and assuming his previous position with Cas in his arms once again. Dean wants to make a comment about how the angel is his whole damn world, but Cas has a way better use for his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys!! I hope you enjoyed! <3 Comments and kudos are adored if you can spare the time! :)


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